


A Shot in the Dark

by Amaria_Anna_D, Entropyrose



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 14:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10492767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amaria_Anna_D/pseuds/Amaria_Anna_D, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: Keeping the strings of a relationship tied together is difficult enough for a normal couple. But add vigilantism into the mix and things get muddy, fast. Every one of Matt's friends think he is certifiable for dating a gun-toting killer like the Punisher, and Matt thinks they're not half wrong. Still, there is something undeniable linking the two of them and Matt is nothing if not a follower of his heart. Falling in love is not hard to do, when any moment together could be their last.





	1. Chapter 1

Frank heard the angry footsteps before he saw him. He knew what this was going to be about, too. Couldn’t say he gave much of a damn about it, either. He tied the end of his suture, breaking it off with his teeth and the fresh red blood gushed forward. He looked out on the blackening horizon and the city streets below as he sat on an empty ammo crate rubbing the back of his neck. Fucking fat-asses anyways. Every muscle ached from dragging the man’s dead blubber three blocks to the truck. He’d have to wait for sundown to row out, tie him to some blocks and dump his ass in three hundred feet of ocean-water. “Whatever you got to say, Red,” he murmured as the man approached, “better say it quick. I’d got a body to bury.” 

Chairman Philips was a con and a crook, and as if it wasn’t bad enough, he just  _ had  _ to go and shoot up his wife for sleeping with a guy who probably dared to love her, or at least show her a good time while her husband was busy entertaining floozies at the cocktail parties. His acquittal was swift and painless; everything money could buy. Well, Chairman Philips couldn’t buy himself one extra second staring down the barrel of Frank’s twelve-gauge, shitting himself and babbling on about how sorry he was and how he’d never do it again. Same ol’ bullshit Frank was used to hearing from men whose time was up.

He was expecting the suited man to launch into his typical rhetoric—about how killing outside the law was wrong, about how he had just snuffed out whatever good that man might have accomplished in his lifetime, that it wasn’t his place. That’s not what happened. He rounded the corner going full-tilt, his boots pounding heavily on the pavement as he crossed the distance between them and pulled back suddenly. 

Frank heard the crunch of metal-on-bone before actually feeling the hit, his boots tumbling over his head as he was knocked to the pavement. “Christ!” Frank raised his arms that were sprayed with blood that was not his own as the blows continued to rain down on his head and neck. “Fuck, Red! Jesus Christ—STOP IT!” A boot to his well-armored chest sent the masked man backwards, his steps barely faltering as he landed like a cat mere inches away. It was enough space for Frank to flatten himself against the side-wall, panting and bleeding from a new split in the flesh of his bottom lip. 

“ _ Really _ , Frank?” The Devil circled him, those skilled, sculpted legs making a path around the place he now crouched. “Chairman Philips?” He stopped just short of Frank’s feet, his breath ebbing from him in white puffs in the chilly evening air. “ _ Really?” _

“ You followed,” Frank murmured. It was not a question. 

“ Yeah.” Matt slid his baton back in its holster and ran his tongue over chapped lips. “Yeah...but obviously I was too late.” 

“ Not your fault.” Frank picked himself up from the side-wall; his boyfriend was talking, which was a good indication that he was done pummeling him into the ground (for the time being). He swiped the dirt off his cracked leather jacket and brushed a streak of freely-flowing blood off his face. It didn’t help much—just kept coming—making a smeared mess of Frank’s jawline and leaving a bitter copper taste in his mouth. 

“ Here.” Matt picked up a rag laying on the ammo crate (he could *sense* its location in a way that Frank would never fully understand, so he must have been able to smell that it was relatively clean and not caked in gun-grease, too). 

“ Mmh—” Frank tossed his head, not exactly keen for Matt’s touch at the moment, and snatched the rag away. “Thanks.” 

“ So, where’s the body?” 

“ Gonna tell your little detective friend?” Frank made his way back to his pile of crates, shoving a crossbar into one and cracking it free to reveal concrete blocks, holes bored into the sides and rope coiling around them. 

“ Trust me, if I wanted you arrested, you would be unconscious and tied up by now.” 

“ Sounds kinky.” 

“ Asshole.” 

Frank snickered. Killing people really did bring out the self-righteous choir boy in him. “I’m gonna go take care of it right now.” 

“ \--not an  _ ‘it’,  _ Frank.He’s a human being. And you killed him.” 

“ Yes, and that piece of shit deserved it. If the State wasn’t going to do with twenty-three years and a round of injections what I did with one bullet, what choice did I have?”

“ He was acquitted!” 

“ Oh please! He killed his wife, Red! C’mon, think of what you do for a living! Do I really have to explain this to you? He bought his goddamn acquittal.” He hefted the blocks out with a guttural grunt and unwound the loose knots in the thick rope, tossing them over his shoulder with a hard “slap”. 

Matt licked his lips again—Frank was beginning to pick up on his little idiosyncrasies (his favorite of which was how he tucked the loose end of the pillow underneath his head—something about reducing the scratching sound his stubble made against it while he slept). This particular tick was Matt buying himself time, his brain doing back-flips through the Rolodex of possible responses in his mind until he landed on the perfect one. “That’s not for you to decide.” The disappointment in his voice was clear. 

He just hoped Matt could sense eye-rolls, too. “Well, that’s where your ideals and mine part ways, then.” Frank stood, wiping his palms together and gathering his duffel for the long walk back to the van. 

“ Never again, Frank.” Matt stepped forward, his face so close Frank feet the heat of his breath against his chin. The sun was making its steady descent behind the skyscrapers, bathing the rooftop in orange. “Not in my city.” 

For one moment, there was the slightest flutter playing itself out deep within Frank’s gut and he closed whatever space remained between them, pressing his blood-smeared lips against Matt’s, reveling in the little gasp he produced. “You know I can’t promise you that. Go home, Red.” 

Matt pulled away, probably partly from the smell of rust and gunpowder, flashing a threatening look towards him, one that both of men knew didn’t hold much sway. “I’m not asking you, Frank.” 

Frank swung the massive blocks by their ropes over his bulky shoulders with a grunt and kicked open the metal door to the stairwell. It groaned open. “I’ll see you there.” 

* * * * * 

Chairman Fat-ass continued to float (no surprise there) even after the addition of several bricks, so Frank had to make due with the sandbags he had brought from the van. The little tin boat had no lights on and no engine, and Frank was thankful for how much lighter the trip back to shore was. He stashed the boat in the spacious bed of the vehicle and made the journey back to Matt’s place. 

He came in the front door this time. It was something new for him to get used to; entering through the turn of a key like he actually belonged there instead of slipping in through window by the fire escape. He frowned a little when he noticed Matt’s coat and cane missing from the rack and his wallet taken off the stand by the door, where it always was whenever Matt was home. He rounded the corner and was greeted by an empty apartment and the faint sound of a distant siren blowing in through a cracked window. 

He checked the closet first and sighed in relief when he saw that the Devil had been tucked away on the lowest shelf. He probably went out to get some fresh air, maybe knock a few beers back. Frank ignored the gnawing instinct in his brain that said to go after him. He was out of uniform, he had his cane, he’d be fine. He kicked off his blood-and-mud-caked boots before he dared take a step on the pristine floor and padded off to the bathroom on sock-covered feet.

He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Frank looked like a nightmare on a normal basis, always with some kind of bruise or cut or stab wound in a varied process of healing. Tonight, it was the deep gash in his lip (courtesy of his boyfriend), a smattered spray of dried blood from the blow-back (probably some brain matter, too) and a rough and rapidly growing five-o-clock shadow. He grabbed his razor from the army-issue kit in the cabinet and went to work.

He heard the front door shut sharply about halfway through his shower. Most of the blood had been washed down the drain along with the soapy suds, and Frank scrubbed briskly at his hair to get the remainder of the shampoo out. The footsteps made their way down the hall and stopped just short of the bathroom door. Frank pressed his forehead to the shower wall, letting the scorching water cascade down his back and relax the tension in his muscles. That gnawing, annoying pressure in his belly returned. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the fuck it was. Guilt? Fuck, no. Frank did not feel guilty. He sure as hell didn’t regret putting down a lying, cheating wife-killer. 

“ I brought sushi,” came the voice on the other end of the door. The footsteps disappeared again, this time headed back towards the bedroom. Frank shut off the water and grabbed a thick towel from the rack. 

Frank hated sushi. He figured: why not just take a rock bass from the harbor, slit it and suck the guts out? Same concept. Matt was sitting upright, cross-legged on the bed, chopsticks in hand when Frank came in. He paused only momentarily. He was more or less picking at the food rather than actually eating it. “I smell better,” Frank offered.

Matt huffed, his distant eyes having fallen towards the thick glass panes of the wall. 

Frank tried again. He crouched in front of him, crawling on to the bed on his hands and knees, straddling Matt’s folded legs and angling his head, straining to gaze into the endless brown abyss of Matt’s eyes. “Hey,” he muttered. 

Matt flashed a heated expression, eyes intense and burning into Frank’s even through the thick red lenses. 

Frank reached up, one calloused hand pressed against his warm cheek.“You’ve been drinkin.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss shouldn’t have surprised Matt, but it did. He had barely sensed Frank moving towards him until Frank’s lips were pressed up against his. He tasted like Matt’s own brand of toothpaste and coffee and even slightly of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written by the incredible and talented Amaria_Anna_D

After leaving Frank to do god-only-knew-what with the corpse, Matt’s gut felt hollow, and his feet felt restless. He went back to his apartment to change into his street clothes, knowing that if he went out as Daredevil he’d likely get his brains bashed in. His focus was blown to hell at the moment. Despite his best intentions, his mind kept reeling back to Frank. The only way he could think of to take his mind completely off of Frank was to head to Josie’s and drink himself into a coma. On his way out the door, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone. His fingers almost began to dial Foggy before his brain caught up. “One more reason to drink,” he muttered as he shoved the device back in his coat.

Matt knew his way to Josie’s so well that he almost didn’t need to use his enhanced senses—barely even needed the cane. His feet seemed to have a perfect memory of the way right down to every chunk of missing concrete in the sidewalk. The weight of the door even felt familiar as he opened it.

Standing at the bar, Josie paused for just a split second as he entered. Her hands froze in place with the rag still in her grasp before she tossed it over her shoulder and reached for a glass. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Murdock,” she called out to him. “There’s a free seat ninety degrees from where you’re standing if you want it.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, following her direction. He did a quick cursory “look” around the room and found that most of the seats were open that night. There were two men he didn’t recognize at the far end of the bar and a few more playing at the pool tables. Without Foggy’s larger-than-life presence the place felt empty. He almost regretted coming enough to get up and go, but then Josie pushed a glass of rotgut whiskey against the back of his hand.

“You look like shit,” she whispered roughly. “First one’s on me tonight. I’ll open you a tab if you need it, but don’t go advertising it.”

Matt felt a pull at the corner of his lips that he somehow couldn’t stop despite his mood. “You’re the best, Josie.”

The whiskey in the glass burned like fire on the way down, even worse than it usually did. Without Foggy instigating it, Matt really wasn’t too much of a drinker. He didn’t like the way it clouded his senses. Control was something he fought too damned hard for to give it up on a whim, but what was the point now anyway? His life had been careening out of control since the night he decided to put on the fucking mask. He’d lost his best friend, his first love, his career, and now it seemed he was losing his grip on any sort of morals he once had. Tossing back the rest of the liquid, Matt could already feeling the alcohol playing hell on his empty stomach. What did it matter if he lost his control on top of everything else? Why the fuck not?

Three drinks in, he came to the conclusion that he really _should_ hate Frank. After all, Frank was really the crux of a lot of the bad shit that had happened to him recently. The sad part was that even drunk, Matt couldn’t get himself to believe that lie. Frank hadn’t been the crux of anything. It had all been Matt’s own stupid fault. He’d lied to Foggy and pushed the world around him away. And Elektra… God damn, he couldn’t think of her right now too. His train of logic left well enough alone there, and moved right back to Frank. Frank did horrible things. He’d made shitty choices in taking the Kingpin’s offer, but not once had he controlled Matt’s actions. Matt made his own choices, and right now he was choosing to let a murderer go. Why?

Tonight, Matt hadn’t been even the least bit surprised that Frank had already killed Phillips. He understood why Frank had done it. The justice system had failed spectacularly on the Phillips case. The man should have been behind bars like the killer he was, and in the absence of justice, Frank made his own call. In a way, Matt didn’t feel nearly as sorry about that fact as he should have. That was only part of what bothered him though. What had been ringing in his ears for hours was that Frank couldn’t promise him that there wouldn’t be more bodies in Hell’s Kitchen. Frank deserved to be in jail. Matt should have done exactly what he’d said and left Frank’s unconscious form lying on the precinct stairs, but instead he just let him go. A sound argument could be made that Frank on the inside was likely to leave and even larger trail of bodies—as he’d already proven—but that was just an excuse. The truth was Matt simply couldn’t bring himself to turn Frank in. He couldn’t hand over the man he was falling in love with. Just like that, any moral high ground he’d ever had as Daredevil crumbled beneath him.

“Josie, can I get another?” he asked as he heard her heavy steps approach.

“Christ, Matt, you’re on a tear tonight.” Despite the concern in her voice, she was pouring another drink. “I don’t offer this to just anyone, but you need to talk or somethin’?”

He accepted the glass and shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but no. ”

“Suit yourself,” she sighed, obviously unsurprised by the rebuff.

Matt idly wondered if Frank was already at his place. He’d given him a key a few weeks back. Yes, he’d given a convicted mass murderer a key to his apartment. Not only that, but he’d been fucking said mass murderer for months now. If he was honest with himself, he wanted those same hands that had ended so many lives to touch him. Matt wanted Frank in ways that stretched what little sanity he had left to the very edges. There were times when he could somehow compartmentalize “the Punisher” from Frank, but after what he’d just seen with Chairman Phillips… Not even the lawyer in him could come up with one good reason that Frank shouldn’t be in cuffs rather than sitting on Matt’s couch.

Around the fifth or so round, Matt became only vaguely aware that regulars that he’d helped out back in his Nelson and Murdock days had been buying him drinks. None of the generous patrons felt the need to come up to him, though, for which Matt was definitely grateful. The seventh round ended up being his last. Josie took the glass and didn’t bring it back without so much as a word to tell him he was cut off.

“Let me call you a cab,” she offered. Her voice sounded softer than it usually was. It was pure concern, but to his drunken mind, it sounded an awful lot like pity. Matt didn’t accept pity.

“S’okay,” he slurred. “I can walk.”

“Dammit, kid, you’re not ending up road-pizza on my watch. I’ve taken keys from guys twice your size, and I am not above taking a blind man’s cane,” she said fiercely.

The alcohol almost made Matt blurt out that he’d love to see her try, but somehow even as fucked as he was better sense prevailed. “Fine,” he agreed sullenly.

By the time the cab came, Matt had been all but forced to drink two cups of coffee that even made Karen’s caustic brew sound good. The caffeine and the passing time did enough that Matt was walking almost straight with guidance from one of the regulars on his way to the door. Once in the back seat, an idea stuck Matt’s addled mind.

He had a paper bag in his grasp when he finally made it up his stairs an hour later. He couldn’t say why, but the sudden idea to pick up sushi on his way home had taken root. The cab driver hadn’t raised so much as a brow when the drunk in the back demanded to be taken to a late night sushi bar rather than straight home. And if the girl who took his insanely large order cared, she didn’t show it either. Neither of them were the ones that drunken Matt had set out to annoy though. He got that satisfaction when he strolled through his door and announced: “I brought sushi.”

The grunt of disgust that came from Frank was exactly what Matt had been looking for. He couldn’t make Frank not kill people, but god fucking damn it, he could gross the man out with raw fish. Matt was still enjoying the small victory a few moments later when he plopped himself and his meal down on the bed. Frank mumbled something about smelling better, but Matt was too far gone to figure out if he meant better than the fish or just better than he had so he kept silent and picked a piece of salmon up with his chopsticks. Frank ignored the sashimi spread and crawled on the bed next to him.

“Hey,” he said in that rasping voice of his that made Matt shiver. Calloused fingertips brushed against Matt’s face.

It was wrong that Matt wanted this so damned much. He wanted every inch of Frank. More than just every inch, he wanted all of the parts of him that weren’t actually quantifiable too. God damn, he wanted Frank even when he shouldn’t. Matt didn’t trust his voice at the moment, so he just sat there probably looking like a moron.

“You’ve been drinkin’,” Frank drawled.

Matt couldn’t help the ridiculous grin that spread across his face. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, Red, it matters,” Frank grumbled in response. “I’m not in the habit of fucking passed out lawyers in beds that are filled with fucking raw fish.”

“You don’t like sushi,” the drunken man chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

Making a clicking sound with his tongue, Frank pulled his hand away from Matt’s cheek. “You got me all figured out, Red.”

“I do have you figured out, Frank,” Matt insisted. He tossed his chopsticks aside, not really paying attention to where the damn things landed. “You, I understand. I’m the one who doesn’t make any fucking sense anymore. And I hate it!”

“You’re drunk…”

There may have been more to that statement but Matt didn’t wait to hear it. “I fucking hate it so much! I shouldn’t want you here! I should put you away—just like I do everyone else, but you aren’t like anyone else. I do want you here! I want it so damn much I can’t even wrap my head around it.”

Frank snorted and began picking up the sushi. “I’m gonna put this away. I will gladly wipe up guts and brain matter, but I am not gonna clean up this shit if you hurl all over the place.”

Matt listened to Frank shoving the left overs in the fridge. By now Frank knew not to move things around in there, and honestly, Matt wasn’t much in the mood to care at the moment if he did. He couldn’t believe that he’d just spilled his guts a second ago and here Frank was cleaning up the take out like nothing happened.

“I mean it, Frank,” he said. “I shouldn’t want you here.”

“But you do, Red,” Frank countered. “And I shouldn’t want to be here. The smart thing to do would be to just take off. God knows there are enough scum bags out there that don’t live in your fucking neighborhood. But I want to be here and you want me here.”

The kiss shouldn’t have surprised Matt, but it did. He had barely sensed Frank moving towards him until Frank’s lips were pressed up against his. He tasted like Matt’s own brand of toothpaste and coffee and even slightly of blood. His tongue moved roughly over Matt’s, and his skin was smooth against Matt’s own stubble. It all felt so right that Matt couldn’t stop himself. Unfortunately, Frank could stop it seemed.

“You’re hammered. We shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmured bitterly.

“Not that drunk,” Matt sighed, pulling Frank in for another kiss. He let his mouth trail along Frank’s jaw. The fact that Frank had shaved for him only made him more persistent. “I want this.”

Those three words seemed to be the key. Frank pushed Matt down to the mattress and began pulling his own shirt over his head. “We’re both idiots, Red.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was scary to have something--someone--to live for, to fight for. Having someone meant risking the possibility of losing them; Frank knew this first-hand. It was in these moments, however, these few precious times alone, that Frank forced his fears aside and allowed himself to be drawn into Matt’s light. That blinding, ever-present, ever-burning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by Entropyrose

Frank was dead inside, though he couldn’t say with any certainty that he had ever truly been alive; not with Maria and the kids, not with the Corps, nor as far back as he could recall. Frank had come to the realization years ago—there was a good possibility that he had never been truly alive to begin with. Maybe he was born like that—just a skeletal husk of sinew and blood encapsulating a soulless, beating heart. Frank had to find the soul in others. He yearned for it; the flickering light of hope amongst a decaying world and the only thing worth saving. Maria had been that light. The kids…

But Matt was no flickering light; he was a roaring fire set ablaze against the blackness, and like a moth to that flame, Frank had been drawn in.

Matt’s world must have been beautiful; to wake up every day with the faith that getting out of bed meant something. Maybe people were inherently good in his eyes. Maybe some of them went bad due to circumstance or nature or the fact that stealing the right shit'll get you more than would a lousy nine-to-five. 

Frank wondered if he could take a piece of that blazing fire—maybe just one ember –without hurting him. He wanted so badly to take a piece for himself. It sounded selfish. It was selfish. But Matt burned so hotly, so bright—surely if Frank only dug his hands deep into the blackened ash beneath he would only burn brighter. Or...would he snuff him out completely in the attempt?

“Ah! Frank, I’m close!”

Frank pitied Matt for one thing alone; he would never know how truly beautiful he looked when he was desperate. “Shhh, baby. M' here.” He reveled in the bitten-off cry that Matt produced as he arched his fingers upward, alternating between battering them against the spongy wall of his prostate and sliding them in and out of the tight ring of muscle. Matt’s long nails trailed down the taut muscle of Frank’s back as he held him there, watching his eyes flutter open occasionally as Frank hit _just_ the right spot. The hand that wasn’t buried between Matt’s legs was tugging at the roots of auburn hair at the back of his head. He peppered kisses down his throat, worrying the heated skin just below his earlobe. “Jesus-fuck, Matt you are so beautiful. Come for me, sweetheart.”

Frank had instructed Matt to touch himself, and he resisted like the good little choir-boy he was. Frank was sure that Matt wasn’t so tame when it came to sleeping with women, but Matt was a thorough and doting lover who put his partner’s pleasure before his own. Frank was determined to change that. There was no greater joy in his life that having Red—his Red—panting and helpless beneath him, jerking himself off shamelessly to Frank’s instructions.

“C’mon, baby, wrap your hand around it.” Frank’s fingers stilled inside of him, as if to warn Matt that the game would stop if he didn’t comply.

Matt huffed out a heavy breath, his eyelashes fluttering, and did as he was told, curling those long, intricate fingers around himself and shivering at the touch.

“That good, sweetheart?,” Frank moaned, sinking his teeth into his collarbone. He rewarded him by driving in deeper than before, past his last knuckle, jamming into the soft spongy tissue of his prostate. “You like touching yourself while I’m finger-fucking you?”

“Frank!” Matt gasped, tossing his head to the side as he rode the shock-wave. His chest heaved as his body went rigid, pulled upward by the force of his ecstasy. Frank let Matt’s head fall to the pillow beneath, clamping his calloused fingers on top of Matts and forcing Matt’s hand closed over the tip of his dick.

“Don’t stop, baby. Don’t stop. Shit, you’re gorgeous.” Frank’s praises were nearly drowned out when a keening wail escaped Matt’s gaping mouth. He covered those perfectly parted lips with his own, muffling the sound as Matt came in ribbons over their hands, the white hot mess splashing against Matt’s stomach as his hole clamped closed, nearly driving Frank’s fingers out. A guttural roar caught in Frank’s chest and he fought the urge to push back inside, to claim him, instead sliding them out and collecting Matt’s quaking hand. He bent his head low, his wide tongue flicking out to lick a stripe of the warm wet liquid with Matt still convulsing and riding out the wave of his orgasm.

“Don’t...” Matt pulled back sheepishly, his belly ebbing as he shifted away. “That’s gross.”

Frank let out a dark chuckle and bolted Matt’s hips to the bed, turning him back again so he could clean up the entire crime scene with his mouth. Matt whimpered and pushed weakly at Frank’s shoulders as Frank lifted his lifeless cock into his mouth and sucked deeply, gathering out the last string of seed still locked inside. “Oooh, owh—too much!”

Frank let him slip out of his mouth and returned to the pillow, his body half-covering Matt’s as he glanced down into his eyes. “S’pose that means you’re not going to let me kiss you.”

Matt’s eyebrows jammed down into a sharp glare. Frank tossed his head back, letting out a golden laugh even as the glow of shame rested in a pink haze on Matt’s face.He pressed their foreheads together with a sigh, stroking Matt’s cheek with a wide thumb. “You smell like come,” Matt groaned, a blatant pout crossing his mouth.

“You smell like sushi.” Frank grinned deviously and gave Matt’s nipple a playful pinch. “Don’t hear me complainin’.”

Round two started minutes later, with Matt lazily rolling onto his stomach, his back muscles quivering underneath Frank’s skilled fingers. Frank traced one of the long scars across Matt’s back absentmindedly as he pressed his hips to Matt’s well-muscled ass. They fit so well together that Frank couldn’t stop a weak-sounding whimper from escaping the back of his throat. He lined his throbbing cock against Matt’s spent hole. His fingers were nowhere near the girth needed to prepare him, so he began slowly, running his leaking tip down his puckered entrance. Matt shivered and relaxed back into the sensation. Frank stilled him with a hand to his back. “Not yet, sweetheart. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Matt let out an indignant sigh, throwing his ass back against Frank, his hole stretching and encompassing the head of his cock. Frank choked down a startled groan. “It’s fine. I want it. Stop treating me like I’m going to break.”

Frank gasped for air above him, his back going rigid, stomach muscles clenching and ebbing at the overwhelming sensation of Matt on his painfully swollen cock. “Sh—shit, Red.”

“Mmh…” Matt’s head arched back, tendrils of sweat-soaked hair falling to his shoulders. “Come on, big boy, are you gonna wait there all day or what?” His mouth quirked up into a secretly triumphant grin as Frank obeyed, lightly thrusting his hips forward, pushing more of himself inside.

Matt was his everything. Frank hadn’t said it. Not to him. Not yet. Frank didn’t even like admitting it. It was scary to have something--someone--to live for, to fight for. Having someone meant risking the possibility of losing them; Frank knew this first-hand. It was in these moments, however, these few precious times alone, that Frank forced his fears aside and allowed himself to be drawn into Matt’s light. That blinding, ever-present, ever-burning light.

They both needed a shower after that; they did so together but silently, as if sharing the same space for just a moment in time was enough. It had become so routine-and it felt odd because it felt so second-nature. Like Frank had been doing this all his life—waiting for him, for his Red. He stashed the handle of his razor between his teeth momentarily, running his wide, worn hands across Matt’s shoulders, massaging the tense muscle there and reveling in the sated moan it produced.

Matt had begun initiating touch, too, and that was something still alien to Frank. That anybody would willingly touch a corrosive, loathsome creature like him. Matt smoothed some shampoo into the tight curls on top of Frank’s head, swirling his nails around in the suds and scratching his scalp. Every part of Frank sang for this man—he would do anything, be anything, just for the honor of being _his._

Frank could never wash his hands clean. They were the only hands he had, the hands of a killer, a criminal, a madman—and no matter how he scrubbed away at them, nothing would erase the ghost-feeling of the blood and the bone and the gunpowder caking them. He touched Matt, an angel, with those same hands. He didn’t regret killing. He was a servant to the only real justice. He would do what was needed, what was necessary. What he did regret was the way Matt looked at him for it.

“You aren’t forgiven,” Matt murmured against his chest in the darkness of the room. “I want to make that clear.”

Frank sighed, curling his hand behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “Never assumed I was.”

“You’re a killer.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Okay, fuck, Red, with _this_ again?”

Matt’s head snapped up and Frank could _feel_ his eyes burning into his. “I wasn’t finished.” He licked his lips—that same movement that told Frank he was gearing up, getting ready. “We need to talk, Frank. There’s something I’ve been thinking about for quite some time now, something I should tell you. I think it’s best if I just come out and say it.”

“Probably,” Frank groaned. He really was _not_ in the mood for Matt’s drama, not that he ever really was—but the bed felt so comforting and Matt was so warm beside him that Frank secretly wished that Matt would let it _be,_ if only for that night. Tomorrow, they could go back to fighting like cats and dogs and neither would be worse off for it, just picking shit up where they had left off. To his surprise, Matt shifted towards him, laying on his belly and stretching his distant arm across Frank’s chest, peering up as if to gaze into the other man’s eyes. They were wide and doe-like, and Frank could have happily disintegrated into a pile of ash right then and there. He swept a thumb across his high cheekbone as he felt his defenses slowly crumbling.

“I think...” Matt shook his head as if unsatisfied with the way he had begun and started over. “I love you, Frank.” His mouth curved into a bashful smile, and he nodded his head, like he was satisfied with the way it sounded crossing his lips. “Yeah. I love you.”

A ball formed in the pit of Frank’s stomach, and he let slip a dark chuckle, facing away towards the wall like Matt had just told him some really corny joke. “Okay, yeah, Red.”

Matt’s eyebrows jammed downward and he pushed his upper half off of the bed and Frank’s wide, warm chest. “How…how is that funny?”

It was Frank’s turn to lick his lips, moving his head left and right as if Matt’s words were slow-moving bullets and Frank was dodging them. “It’s just...you can’t know that. Okay? You...you don’t just _say_ shit like that, okay?”

Matt let out a soft, indignant huff. “What’s the big deal? You say that kind of shit to me all the time.”

“That’s _different,_ Red. I...I _know what I mean_ when I say it.”

Matt jolted backwards as if Frank had just backhanded him, his dark eyelashes fluttering. “Oh, I see. And I don’t mean it.”

“I didn’t _say_ that...”

“Then _explain_ it to me, Frank. Since apparently I lack the intelligence to know what I mean when I say something.”

Frank’s finger flew in Matt’s direction, and he tossed off the blankets from his legs, sliding off to stand beside the bed, hands planted on either hip bone, tugging emphatically at the waistband of his boxer-briefs. “See? This... _this_ is the shit I am talking about. You take shit out of context, Red. You-you’re _constantly_ doing this.”

“ _I’m_ the one taking things out of context? I’m not the one getting bent out of shape about three little words...”

“They’re _not,_ though, Red, that’s what I’m trying to tell you! This--you see? This is life-changing, mind-fucking shit you’re dealing with and you don’t know--”

“Oh, okay!”

“You don’t KNOW!”

“For fuck’s sake, Frank...”

“ **YOU JUST CAN’T, OKAY**?” Frank’s voice reverberated against every wall, rattling the windows and the bringing the room down to bare, bitter silence. He clamped his jaw down on his thumb-knuckle, his nerves raw and hands shaking. He spoke again, the tone quieter this time, his brown eyes burning towards Matt’s confused gaze. “You can’t love me. Not me, Red. Love somebody else. _Anybody_ else. Fuck, find a puppy or a druggie or a drowning rat in the sewer for fuck’s sake. _Anything_ but me.”

Matt’s hands fell limp to the bed, shaking his head softly, lost by Frank’s words. “We don’t always get to chose who we love, Frank.”

“Yeah well maybe not all of us. But _you_ do.” Frank gathered up a fresh pair of his jeans off the top of the hamper that he had discarded them after a brawl some nights earlier and Matt had thrown them in the wash without a word. “See, I know you don’t like it, but I’ve got your game figured out. You’ll go and go, and you just won’t quit. See? That’s your _problem_ Red. You give and you give, until there’s nothing left of you.” Frank slips the stiff denim over his legs, jerking them up over his hips and zipping the fly. “So don’t you _dare_ love somethin’ you can’t save.”

“Well, I guess you have it all figured out,” Matt murmured, crossing his arms over the gathered sheets on his chest.

“Yer goddamn right I do.” His dog-tags chimed as he pulled a tight black tee-shirt over his head. The activity had gotten him calmed down to the point where a part of him—albeit a small sliver—actually yearned for Matt to call him back into bed. For his boyfriend to pull him down by the arms and wrap himself around him and talk him into staying, beg him to stay. He knew Matt wouldn’t go for it—the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was far too prideful for any of that. Plus Frank knew he was undeserving of any affection at this point since he did the exact _opposite_ of what someone should do when their significant other pledges their undying devotion to them.

Frank huffed his duffel bag over his shoulder and slid the bedroom door open with a sheepish look behind him out of the corner of his eye at the scowling man on the bed. “See you around, Red.”

Matt’s steel gaze was locked on the far wall, the soft light pouring through the glass illuminating his hardened expression. “Don’t count on it,” he mumbled.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter by Amaria_Anna_D

Avoiding Frank was easier than it should have been. The parts of the city where the Punisher usually made his presence felt the hardest were now also the quietest. It would have been easy for Matt to go on pretending he didn’t care about Frank or what he was off doing, but he did care. He cared too damn much, and that precisely was what got them into this mess. By the end of the first week, Matt found himself patrolling further outside of the Kitchen than he would have otherwise. On one hand, the lack of bodies was encouraging, but on the other hand, it made getting a bearing on exactly where Frank had slunk off to nearly impossible. By the second week, Matt almost found himself hoping that Frank would do something stupid just so he could prove the man was alive. Nearing the end of the third week, Matt had pretty much resigned himself to the fact that wherever Frank was, he didn’t want to be found. Life had to carry on at some point.

The downside was that for Matt, life carrying on meant trudging through his days as an almost-out-of-work lawyer only to spend his nights beating the same thugs wearing different faces for the same things. One day seemed too much like the next to really bother counting them these days anyway. He didn’t even have Foggy or Karen to keep him grounded anymore. He just felt adrift. There were even times when Matt just wanted to curl in on himself and give up, but he somehow kept moving.

In the end, what snapped him out of his drudgery was the Russians—not the same Russians that Fisk had blown off the map. What was left of that syndicate had crumbled and turned to ashes without the Ranskahov brothers leading them. No, this group was new to Hell’s Kitchen and maybe even more vicious than the brothers had been. True, they picked up the same kinds of bullshit that their predecessors had—human trafficking, drugs, extortion, you name it—but they did it with a body count that would have even made Wilson Fisk uneasy. Fisk’s operation hadn’t had any qualms about killing, but their work had mostly been carefully tucked away. These guys left their dirty deeds lying in the street to be seen by one and all. Brett told him that the group all had such perfectly planned out alibis that they were more or less untouchable. Untouchable by the cops that was, Matt didn’t exactly play by the same rules that cops did.

Though it wasn’t his usual style, Matt spent the first few days staking out the group along the edges. They were more meticulous than the Ranskahovs had been, Matt had to admit. While the brothers hired American and outside help here and there to fill in gaps, not one of the men he’d followed were anything less than one hundred percent Russian mafia through and through. They moved less frequently, but when they did it was with lightning speed and efficiency. Matt realized quickly that he would have to strike once and hard at the heart of this group to make any sort of difference at all.

The night Matt found out where their “cargo” was held things went to shit faster than ever before. Looking back, Matt couldn’t even see the point when things went from ‘not going great’ to ‘completely fucked’. If he had to guess, it would have been when he slipped through the back door to the warehouse. He’d silently taken out two guards, but the place had been so huge and there was so much activity inside that he’d missed the electrical hum of the cameras above him. It was a rookie mistake and it nearly cost him his life. From deep inside the warehouse, Matt could hear hushed, rapid-fire Russian over their radios. Men moved in organized pairs from one end of the compound to the next, and Matt did the only thing he could think of to do in that instant. He tucked himself up underneath the metal catwalks, praying that he was right in thinking that the darkness would cloak him.

It took only minutes for that prayer to fail him. Gunshots echoed from all around him. Some bullets strayed close enough to his head that the sound of them nearly deafened him. He vaulted himself into the center of the first group, his fists and boots cutting through the air madly. It only took one hit to send him to the floor. The butt of a rifle hit him squarely in the spine hard enough to knock him off his feet, from there the pummeling came from all angles and lasted so long he couldn’t make sense of much.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the crowd and all of the hits stopped coming. Matt was hauled up by his arms—one of which was badly broken—and he tried to lift his head to face the new comer. His efforts failed, and he felt finger tips beneath his chin, helping him.

“So this is the devil,” the man said with amusement softening the harsh edges of his accent. His voice was far more refined than Vladamir’s had been but no less cold. “Do you have any idea how much money you are going to make me?”

Matt pooled the saliva and blood in his mouth and managed to spit in the man’s face. “Go to Hell.”

A sharp kick to his ribs was his reward, and he had to be hauled back up once more. “That is the one and only time you will goad me into hurting you, devil. You are going to sell for so much more money if you are alive and mostly intact. Surely you know there are people who will pay dearly for the pleasure of breaking your themselves. I can’t let your rudeness push me into denying them that.”

The man snapped his fingers, and Matt was being carried off through the labyrinth of shipping crates. He was vaguely aware of dozens of heartbeats inside of those containers and that knowledge somehow hurt more than anything the Russians could do to him. Finally, they brought him to a small concrete room at the end of the building. The echos off of the walls told Matt that it was unlikely anyone outside of the room could hear him even if he did decide to scream. His captors yanked his arms back roughly and chained him against the wall. They snickered and spoke in their native tongue at his pain, but none of them so much as lifted a finger to torment him further before turning their backs and leaving him there.

In that instant, Matt was keenly aware that he was probably going to die. Along with his broken arm, he had several cracked ribs and countless bruises and gashes covering his body. None of it would kill him anytime soon. But the Russian hadn’t been lying when he’d said that Daredevil was worth far more alive than he was dead. The thought of what could be waiting in his future sent an involuntary shiver down Matt’s spine. If he couldn’t think a way out of this, he was going to die horribly.

Footsteps echoed on the floor heading his way outside. The door opened to reveal a new person—a woman this time—along with one of the men who had just left him there. She smelled of blood and other even less savory scents. Before Matt could think too long on what exactly she was doing there, he could hear a bag of some sort open and smell familiar scents of gauze and saline. They’d brought a fucking doctor to him. The thought didn’t bring him any comfort. From across the room, he could hear her unpacking a syringe and tapping the air out of it. His stomach clenched as the man held him down and the bite of a needle pierced his skin.

 _I’m going to die and I wasted my last night with the man I love:_ that was the last lucid thought Matt had for what felt like days. He was vaguely aware that time was passing and that things were happening both to him and around him. Some kind of liquid meal replacement was forced down his throat a time or two, and he thought he could feel his wounds being stitched up and cleaned. But everything was so dull. It felt like someone had mummified him in thick layers of fabric to the point of making him both blind and deaf. By the time he was loaded in a vehicle sometime later, he was almost beyond caring about any of it.

The world suddenly opened up in a rush of sound and scents. Matt’s mind tried desperately to piece together exactly what was going on around him, but it was still slowed by the lingering drugs in his system. He wasn’t in the same warehouse. The place smelled different. Not only that, but the people were different here. The same Russian man seemed to be leading the show at the new location and there were a few guards that seemed almost familiar, but there were others now. Men in suits who smelled of cologne. And then it hit him; he was being sold.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every bullet destroyed in that blaze was a life saved, and one of those lives might very well have been Matt’s. 
> 
> That was the night Matt disappeared from Frank’s radar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by Entropyrose

Frank hadn’t ever taken up smoking—even as a wet-behind-the-ears recruit in the Corps, hoping to appear as bad-assed and gritty as the guys who had been there for years. It just never appealed to him. One of his buddies was a hardcore chain smoker; he’d light ‘em up one after another and it always pissed Frank off because there were cartons and cigarette butts scattered all over the Humvee, and it was Frank’s job as the newbie to pick ‘em all up by hand. Nah, he’d never smoked before, but thirty-seven seemed like an okay place to start. He’d smoke whatever his latest target had tucked in his jacket pocket after the deed was done. Consider it “payment for services rendered”. Menthol cut down on the ashy aftertaste and hid his natural scent from Matt’s radar. 

Frank enjoyed the challenge. Matt was a sneaky little bastard whose methods for tracking him down exceeded even Frank’s understanding. He had learned early on that heartbeat had a lot to do with it—easy enough. Frank could disguise his heartbeat using an old breathing trick he’d picked up in the Corps. Next was footsteps. So Frank dug out an old pair of Carharts and spray-painted them black. Then there was scent: that’s where the cigarettes came in. The coffee: now that was a little trickier. Frank disguised it by using a drop of that frilly caramel mocha creamer junk that made the coffee the taste and consistency of diarrhea. Frank didn’t  _ have  _ to disappear—Red just had to think Frank had. Maybe, given enough time, he’d forget about him completely. Maybe he’d start dating someone new, someone without a body count attached to his online profile. The sex was great, fun while it lasted. Frank wasn’t about to start picking out fucking dinnerware and duvet covers when there was a good chance he wasn’t going to be around for any set length of time. 

Frank’s other challenge, and perhaps the hardest, was disposing of the dirty work so Matt didn’t come following after. He invested in some high-quality chemical gloves—the kind that go all the way to the elbows—and picked up a ceramic bathtub from the landfill and several preferred liquids from the chemical treatment plant. He stashed all in one of his sheds on the outskirts of town. A dollar store special replaced the K&N filter on the van, and he was good to go. Instant camo. 

Frank sat on the ledge of the old shoe store and watched his Red go to town on some pathetic Dealer’s face. He took a deep drag on the cigarette, letting it calm his nerves, just like his old Corp buddy always told him it would, and smiled proudly down at the scene. When the gang-banger was out cold, Matt fastened makeshift restraints out of an old dock chain and within seconds, the familiar wail of sirens was breaking out in the distance. Atta boy, Red. 

Of course, the pajama-wearing ninja couldn’t just leave it at that. No, he had to go sniffing around a new group—a bunch of faceless crooks that Frank hadn’t had the time to research yet. Apparently, Frank’s “absence” had raised an eyebrow or two and a newer breed of cockroaches were starting to come out of the woodwork. See, this is what happens when the Punisher disappears. Police scanners indicated that Frank had thrown them off his trail as well, and it would have allowed for some well-planned recon if not for Matt getting antsy and sniffing around where his adorable nose didn’t belong. 

Frank had to make his move and fast, before the Russian Mafia’s stray ass-hair officially set up shop and Red joined the fray. 

And of course, if there was anything Frank knew he could count on, it was for everything to collectively go to shit. Whispers of an arms deal of Hydra’s shed stock turned into an all-out siren when Police sources reported on an unmarked shipping container on the docks just outside the East River. If it was the deal that Frank had been fearing, there was no way he could let those guns get out. Too many cops and vigilantes running the streets for that—vigilantes like Matt. So, Frank stocked the van and headed across town.

Plenty of familiar names flew back and forth across his scanner as he watched the men in security uniforms patrolling the place. Gibson. Echo. Gray. Idiot mercs were using their usual call signs, and it made them easy targets. Frank set up his scope and cracked off a few strays. It was pretty routine after that; he waited in the shadows as the others took notice of their fallen buddies and jotted across the dark lot as the pandemonium ensued. Thermite along the seal of the door melted enough of a hole to drop in some C4. It would ignite the load inside, and if Frank was lucky, Fisk would be nearby to watch his precious cargo go up in flames. “Step away, Castle.” Frank just  _ had  _ to chuckle when he felt the cold press of a barrel against the back of his skull. 

“ You sure you wanna do that?” Frank crept both hands above his head slowly, the detonator gripped firmly in his fingers, his thumb hovering over the button.. 

Wesley let out a disbelieving snicker and nudged the gun in the direction of the dock. “Things will go much easier for you if you just comply, Mr. Castle. You press that and you’ll blow us both sky high. I have a feeling that even a lowlife like you has something to live for.” 

Frank rose slowly to his feet. Dating Matt had done this to him—made him less willing to take unnecessary risks. It wasn’t that he feared the concept of dying, just that it was uncomfortable to think about leaving Matt behind to parade around in his pajamas without someone to watch his back. “I can’t let your boss play with these shiny new toys, is all. Think of it like collector’s items.” He wheeled on one heel as the gun fired off just behind his ear, hitting the side of the container. His elbow connected with the back of Wesley’s head and his knee found his groin as the gun clattered to the ground. “They’re meant to be left in the box.” 

Somewhere in the midst of wrestling for control of the stick, the button got hit and the whole world imploded, shrapnel and bits of shredded debris blowing out of the box as the inside lit up like fireworks. Frank’s bulletproof vest would not survive another mission after this one—the metal that didn’t embed itself into the exposed flesh of his arm tore through the jacket like a knife through butter, stopping just short of his ribs. Frank crawled away with one working leg and collapsed into his van, feeling only slightly better as he watched the black smoke rise from the twisted heap of metal. The sirens in the distance were growing closer, and he jammed his foot on the pedal and peeled out just in time for the first fire truck to blow past. Every bullet destroyed in that blaze was a life saved, and one of those lives might very well have been Matt’s. 

That was the night Matt disappeared from Frank’s radar. By the time Frank got back and patched himself up, he had lost track of him, and his worry grew a little when checking Red’s usual haunts produced nothing. He didn’t want a confrontation, after all there was nothing to talk about, but if he was going to get any sleep that night and properly heal up it was going to be after he knew Matt was safe and sound. He kept telling himself what a dumbass he was being the entire way to Matt’s apartment; Matt was fine. He was taking a much-needed night off. Frank fiddled with the key in his pocket as he made his way to Matt’s door (still felt a little strange not using the fire escape) and internally worked on the excuses he would give him as to why he was there. 

He left something. 

He needed a place to crash. 

He was worried—nope, no. Not that one. 

He slid the door open and limped inside, the swelling in his leg making it harder and harder to walk. He knew he’d have to look at it soon and Red was going to give him a ton of shit for blowing himself up—again. There was an aching part of him, way down deep, that secretly yearned to hear his voice. He would give anything for one of Matt’s lectures right now. Telling him he was a murderer and he was being irresponsible and that he was giving vigilantes a bad name. How he longed to hear it, to sit slumped on the couch as Matt slipped into angry-lawyer mode and laid it all out on the line, every idiotic deed. He would pull him down into his lap when he got close enough, wrangling his arms down to his sides and let escape a delighted chuckle as he kissed him. God did he miss those lips. 

_ Be okay, Matt. You gotta be okay. _

The door opened with a groan and revealed a dark, empty apartment. Matt would leave the small lamp in the hallway on when he was home so Frank wouldn’t have to stumble around in the dark when he got home. (Home. Had Frank really just thought that? And yet it sounded so good, even just in his head. Yeah, Matt’s was home.) The lamp was dead and the apartment spotless; Matt’s cane hanging up by the doorway and his coat on the rack. Frank’s heart sped up as he half-dragged himself down the hallway and tore open the closet. He pulled out half the contents before he finally stopped searching. The suit was gone. The gloves, the helmet. Gone. Red’s prized bully sticks. Gone. 

He bit down on his bottom lip until it bled as he flattened himself to the wall, sliding down till his ass hit the floor and blowing out a shuddering breath .His legs felt like lead and the shrapnel embedded in his side made his whole body scream. With a firm grunt he grabbed onto a piece that poked out from his bicep and yanked. It clattered to the floor. He’d have to apologize to Matt about the blood later. He slumped against the wall as his eyelids drifted closed, and he could no longer fight the desperate need for rest.

* * * * * 

Clinking glasses and light laughter; two of the very first signs of a high-class party. Elevator-type music playing softly in the background. The smell of undercooked shrimp and overpriced perfume. Light poured into his senses as a curtain is drawn back and polite clapping ensues. He lifted his head with a dry gasp, testing the chains that bind his hands around his back and shifting uncomfortably on his knees on the floor. The doctor—if that’s what she was—had given him some effective painkillers and the throbbing in his arm was dull but constant. He could hear the gasps from the women and a few happily surprised chuckles from the men as they snack on their refreshments and watch the show.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Russian from the warehouse—the same Russian that’s been a pain in his ass for the past however many days—announced into an overly hot microphone. It let out a high-pitched squawk that sent Matt’s head into his chest, and he could hear the man sneer in response. “We dedicate this evening to our very special guest, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. How many of your evening plans have been...rearranged by him? How many of your hard-earned dollars lost? How many of your men taken out by this unfortunate nuisance? Now is your chance to exact revenge and discover the pathetic man underneath the mask. He is no devil, my friends, I assure you. And now is your time to prove to him who the _real devil is._ We open the bidding at twelve.” 

The drugs were making Matt’s head woozier than the feedback, and maybe that’s why he winced a little at the price. He can’t help but feel a little offended; surely he’d be worth a little more than that? The indigence subsides when the numbers start flying up. 

“Twelve? I hear twelve. Do we have thirteen? Thirteen to the gentleman in the hat. Now Fourteen?” The prices keep going as the heartbeats in the room start increasing to innumerable speed and patrons let out disappointed grunts as the number climbs. “Thirty-two? I have Thirty-two right here. Now thirty-three?” 

“ Fifty-seven!” A booming voice roared from the back of the room. The crowd fell into a hush as heavy footsteps sauntered directly down the center of the tables and the familiar shape/sound/scent of the man before him froze Matt’s blood instantly in his veins. “And if you raise it to fifty-eight, I will make it fifty-nine. And if you make it fifty-nine,” The gargantuan man turned to address the astonished onlookers, “I will make it a hundred.” 

The Russian stopped dead in his tracks, and Matt could hear him breathing steadily into the microphone, pausing only shortly to look into the crowd before the pounding of a gavel rang out and the defeated patrons clapped lightly. 

Matt was hauled to his feet, his weak body sagging against the chains and the Russian’s breath was suddenly hot in his ear. “I don’t know what he has planned for you, Devil,” he chuckled, “But I have a feeling you’re not going to like it.” 

Rough hands dragged him out again, through what sounded like a tunnel (Matt’s head was too muddled to be sure). Fisk was gone for the time being, but no doubt they’d be meeting up again shortly, after this new cluster of lackeys delivered Matt to wherever it was they were taking him. Fisk was not the kind of man to simply order his men to put a bullet in his enemy’s head while he sat back and watched. No, he was a hands-on kind of executioner, the most ruthless Matt had ever known. The kind of predator that liked to play with his food before he ate it. 

He was shoved into the back of a large SUV, and he hated himself for being so weakened that he couldn’t even shove back as they bound his legs together. It was all he could do to keep upright. He wondered briefly if the lackeys accompanying him were ones he had run into before—maybe ones he had helped put in jail a time or two. Maybe it had subsequently kept them from progressing up the ladder within the syndicate. Maybe they all had a personal reason to want him dead. 

But Matt was still breathing, which meant there was still hope for a way out of this. The thought crossed his mind briefly that maybe if he hadn’t pissed off the Punisher none of this would be happening, and he hated himself for it. Since when did he start relying on Frank “The-Loose-Cannon” Castle? Maybe it wasn’t that at all-maybe it was simply that he had gotten used to being shadowed (read: stalked) by the gun-toting psycho for long enough that it had become some unspoken routine. It was just what they did now; Frank following Matt into danger (and needlessly upping the body count) and Matt trolling Frank to keep tabs on his schizo boyfriend and referee his bloody killing sprees. 

Not any more, he reminded himself. Wherever Frank was—if he even was still alive—the pact had been severed, along with their brief-but-mind-blowing fling. (How had that even come about? Matt had never made the habit of going to bed with disturbed assassins that needed to be locked away in some metal ward somewhere….oh, oh wait. Yes, he had.) Somewhere in the midst of his quickly-derailing train of thought, he drifted off into a restless sleep between two hulking bodyguards. 

Matt was sweating when he woke up—the pain in his arm had gone from a four to an eleven, and the mask needed to come off. Badly. He could feel the buildup of days’ worth of oil and perspiration trapped under the squelching leather helmet and was pretty sure a zit was forming somewhere near the right side of his nose. He was sitting in a rickety wooden chair, his hands still bound behind his back and a leg tied to either side of the wooden pegs. Music played softly in the background, pumped out by a small boombox in the corner of the room, Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, the second movement if he wasn’t mistaken. From the smell of motor oil and tires, and the sharp reverberation of footsteps on the cement floor, he deduced this was a garage. His heart sank down to his knees—a garage meant power tools. Power tools promised a slow, painful way out. 

He was still breathing—Matt had to remind himself of this. The drugs were quickly fading from his system and while this meant that he felt every throbbing movement and every aching bone, he also had a clearer head and his senses were beginning to sharpen back into focus again. Once he was at full strength—hell, even half strength—he could unleash himself from the bindings and disarm the nearest guards before they even had a chance to fire their weapons. 

Heavy footsteps and the smell of Italian Leather invaded the room. Fisk’s presence was overwhelming—sight or no sight—and it blocked out all other senses from his focus. He huffed out a soft laugh and slid into the chair across from Matt, just a few feet away. He picked up a decanter from the little rolling table and methodically poured out two drinks. “You have been a busy man, Mr. Devil,” the behemoth began. “You must be thirsty.” 

Whatever the liquid was, it would offer a brief reprieve from the desert in his mouth even if it was short-lived. The lackey who Fisk had ordered to give it to him wasn’t as nice about it as he could have been—he shoved the glass so far under Matt’s nose that it clacked against his teeth and some of the fluid ran down his chin and under his collar--that was going to be a bitch to clean out later. Can’t exactly take a super-suit to the dry cleaners without raising a few eyebrows. Still, the liquid—which turned out to be some kind of high-priced brandy, maybe Louis XIII, refreshed his tongue and washed down some of the dry blood from his mouth. “Thank you,” Matt offered as the man returned the glass to the tray. 

“No, thank _you,”_ Fisk offered with a tip of his head. “It is has challenged me as a businessman as well as in my personal life, having had you constantly nipping at my heels over the years. You have kept me on my toes, and I can honestly say that who I am today is partly attributed to having to stay one step ahead of you.” 

Matt let out a snicker and shifted in the uncomfortable chair. He wiggled his right foot against the restraints, testing the strength of the ropes that bound him. “It’s rather generous to call what you do a “business”, Fisk.” 

“ On the contrary,” Fisk said, taking a sip of his brandy. “My  _ business _ just allowed me to purchase you. Pardon the unrefined expression, Mr. Devil, but let’s call this what it is. A transaction for the opportunity to uncover a secret, that, quite frankly has been nagging at me for quite some time.”

He suddenly jolted forward, one massive hand hovering over Matt’s mask, and Matt jerked back as far as he could go, sucking air in through his nostrils and tossing his head to the side as wide fingers threatened to tear the helmet right off his face. His shoulder blades hit against the bodies that rushed in to hold him forward and his stomach did back-flips as the large man in front of him let out an entertained laugh. 

“ My, my. You must have something desperately important hidden under there to warrant such a disdainful reaction.” 

“ Well, if I’m being honest,” Matt murmured, still holding his head away, “I thought it’d be worth a little more than sixty thousand.” 

The fingers fell away from his face, the shadow curling back in on itself as a deep chuckle rumbled through the big man. “My dear, Mr. Devil,” he said. “You poor, simple thing. You just cost me sixty  _ million. _ ” 

Matt didn’t have time to let that number sink in before the man was reaching again. Matt whipped his head forward, the hard front plate of the mask connecting with Fisk’s forehead with a dull CRACK. Fresh blood sprang forward instantly, the man’s eyes lighting up with an unconstrained rage as he roared and swiped one claw down the mask. It jutted forward against Matt’s nose and the fabric in the back of his neck burned as it tore away, but it didn’t come off. Matt grinned—it seemed the Devil wasn’t ready to leave him yet, either. 

“ Hold him down,” Fisk bellowed, reaching behind him on the counter for a drill as hands pulled Matt back down into the rickety little chair. The wooden chair groaned against all the weight being put on it, as if it were threatening to shatter beneath him at any moment. Matt kicked his right foot out again, and his heart leapt when he heard the familiar crackle of splintering wood. He twisted his torso away, ignoring the searing pain that screamed at him from the broken arm, grasping hold of the loop in his left hand and pulling as hard as he could. He wrenched his upper half away from his lower half and the chair seemed to explode from underneath of him, disintegrating into a million little pieces. 

Something happened then that Matt had not expected—a barrage of gunfire going off over his head just before his ass hit the pavement. The men quick enough to fire back were soon being riddled with holes, the spray of blood hitting Matt and the pavement and bathing the entire place in the acrid aroma. The whole scene had the signature of just one man Matt could think of. And suddenly, he was there, breaking through the shattered glass window and sending one of the lackeys through the garage door with the scream of metal and twisting iron. 

God, he had missed those arms—the taut muscle like a marble statue slipping underneath him and making him go weightless, the creak of leather as Matt’s suit met his trench coat, the smell of his aftershave mixed with wound cleaner and gunpowder—always gunpowder. “S’okay, Red. I got you.” 

He didn’t hear Fisk or even sense his heartbeat any more. He didn’t know what had happened or where he ended up, but it didn’t matter. He was being gently lowered to the floor with one arm while Frank racked off another round into an advancing guard with the other, his eyes focused on Matt’s face. 

When the bullets settled and the dust cleared, Matt let out a shiver and tugged off his mask, the heated air stinging his eyes but relieved, so relieved, to get the damn thing off. 

“ Wow, you look like shit,” Frank said with a masked chuckle. 

“ Well you don’t have to sugar-coat it for me, Frank.” Matt flashed him a genuine grin as he stood to his feet, for the first time in a long time unrestricted and unbound. He lifted a hand to Frank’s bicep, pulling back as he felt the uneven ridge of a thick bandage underneath. “Bad day?” 

“ Couple of ‘em, yeah.” 

Once the rush of adrenaline settled and they had made their way to the van, things got a little awkward. Matt sat in silence on their way back to wherever Frank decided to take them, which happened to be Matt’s apartment (he was grateful for that). The hundred questions he had for Frank would have to wait. The biggest of which was the hardest to contain—what were they now? Should Matt go back to acting like they are just mere acquaintances, maybe not even that? The throbbing in his arm had migrated to every other extremity in his body and even that couldn’t distract him from thinking about how badly he wanted to cross the bench seat and crawl into the other man’s arms, and not knowing if he could or not. If Frank was having the same questions, he didn’t let on that he was, keeping his gaze pointed at the road ahead. They helped each other silently up to the apartment, Frank depositing Matt carefully on his bed. This was the point where Matt would usually pull Frank into the circle of his arms and offer a light kiss on the lips, just to keep check. Just to say he was still there, that they were still together, that he loved him. All the things that all the words in the world would never be enough to adequately convey. Matt hesitated, and Frank seemed to freeze for a moment, hovering over him, mouth dropped open slightly. Was he expecting it? Did he want Matt to...? 

Frank snapped his mouth shut and huffed out a long sigh. When he turned around and walked to the doorway was when Matt detected Frank’s foot dragging along the ground.

“ Hey Frank...” He couldn’t stop the words as they sputtered out of his mouth.

Frank turned his head Matt’s way, one eyebrow cocked.

Matt cleared his throat and swallowed dryly. No going back now. “Stay?” 

Frank only smiled slightly before turning around and wordlessly joining Matt in the bed, sliding on top of the covers, leather duster and all with a sated, grateful groan. A deep sleep followed for both of them, bodies broken and bruised, arms stretched towards each other, fingers lazily reaching out to intertwine. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt really, really hated hospitals. Thankfully, he’d managed to avoid stepping foot in one for his own needs since the accident. Though this time the it was completely unavoidable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written by Amaria_Anna_D

Frank watched Matt’s chest rising and fall steadily in the morning’s pale light. He still looked like shit. Bruises in various shades of purple, blue, and yellow covered most of his face, and Frank doesn’t even want to think about how bad it would have been without that helmet. Sad part was, his body was worse than his face. There wasn’t much of Matt’s usually pale white skin that wasn’t shaded with livid marks. His arm was probably going to take more than Claire could even do before it’s functional again. At the moment, it’s a bright pinkish-purple, and Frank gently ran a finger across the knuckles without getting any reaction at all. Frank’s gut clenched at the thought of Red losing dexterity in his hand, but he knew at after everything they’d been through, he was in no position to force the horned vigilante to an ER. 

Snagging one of his burner phones from his duffel bag, he snuck out into the hall and dialed Claire’s number. It surprised the fuck out of him when the nurse answered on the second ring. After giving her the quick, dirty version of what happened, he half expected her to tell him to go fuck himself, but with a half muttered-half growled “I’m on my way” she disconnected the call. He couldn’t help smiling at the phone in his hand and shaking his head. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Red had inspired such devotion in his friends.

He took a brief detour up to the roof just to collect his thoughts. Hauling his ass up the steps was harder than he’d imagined, and it took him nearly as long to haul himself back down.

By the time he went back inside, Red was trying to pull himself into a sitting position and groaning in agony from the effort. Frank limped over to the bed and pushed him back down with a gentle hand. “Your friend, Claire’s comin’ to patch you up,” he said, even though he’s damn sure the blind man had heard the whole fucking conversation.

Red gave a short nod. “Thanks… for everything I mean.” 

“ You saved my ass before and probably will again. I don’t think there’s any need to keep score.” Frank eased himself down on the bed beside him. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have let this happen. It never should have gone as far as it did.”

“ It’s not your fault, Frank. It was my mistake… all of it was.” Red closed his eyes and took a long slow breath. He let out a short snort of laughter when Frank didn’t fill the silence stretching between them.“What no lecture on going in blind?”

“ Don’t think you need one right now,” Frank murmured in reply. He swiped a hand across his eyes. “Besides, it sounded like your friend, Claire had a hell of one building. Who am I to steal her thunder?”

Red let out a wry laugh and then immediately hissed in pain. Once he was breathing normally again, he cocked his head to the side. “Speaking of, Claire’s coming up the stairs… and it sounds like she brought her boyfriend.” Red’s lips quirked up on one side. “Try not to piss him off he’s got super strength and bulletproof skin.”

“ That guy from Harlem?” Frank asked with a slight chuckle. He’d heard about Luke Cage on the news and had been more intrigued than anything. 

“ The same,” Matt confirmed with a short nod. A look crossed his face that Frank couldn’t decipher “He’s a good man. I’m glad she found him.”

Frank gave the prone vigilante a long look. He knew that Claire and Matt had something brief. Over the last few weeks, he even hoped that maybe they’d rekindle that without him in the picture. Claire was a hell of a woman. Maybe she was even the kind of person Red deserved, but the thought that Matt might be jealous of her boyfriend now left a sour taste in Frank’s mouth. 

A key jangled outside in the door. Matt didn’t so much as flinch, so it was a pretty good indication that the cavalry had come. When Claire burst through the door followed by a huge guy, Frank didn’t even bother to get off the bed. Honestly, the shrapnel in his side hurt like a mother fucker, and whatever adrenaline had been pumping through his veins was long gone, not bothering to keep his ass moving anymore. 

“ Ma’am,” he said with a nod. Claire and Frank had met before. He’d been drugged to the gills through most of it (Red’s doing), but he remembered liking the nurse well enough. More importantly, she kept Matt alive more times than he could probably count. She deserved all the respect he could muster.

“ Frank,” she returned evenly. “Luke, this is Frank Castle—also known as the Punisher.”

Luke’s dark eyes traveled over Frank quickly and thoroughly. He carried himself like he was expecting a fight, but his stance softened just slightly when he came to the conclusion that Frank was in no real shape to give one. He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “So I’ve heard.”

“ So happy you’ve all finally met,” Matt drawled from the bed. 

Claire brushed by Frank, giving him a look that clearly said he was in the way. He struggled to his feet and began to make his way to the couch. Between the blood loss and exhaustion, he was feeling more than a little dizzy. His step faltered just a bit. An unwanted arm curled around him and all but lifted him off the ground. Frank gave Luke a glare that would have sent most people running away in piss stained pants, but the larger man didn’t so much as bat an eye. Bullet proof skin must come with balls of steel to match, Frank decided.

“ Stay here until Claire finishes up with Matt. She’ll need to take a look at that side,” he said flatly.

It sounded an awful lot like an order to Frank, and he didn’t take orders from just anyone. He wanted to challenge Luke’s authority to say shit to him, but right now was not the time to start something he couldn’t finish. Instead, he let out a sarcastic snort. “What you think I’m gonna just waltz outta here without seeing how Red’s doing?”

Luke shrugged. “From what I hear, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“ You son of a...”

“ Jesus, you two, do not start a war in my fucking living room!” Matt yelled from the bedroom. Claire had closed the door behind her, but obviously that did little to hamper the blind man’s ability to hear them.

Frank and Luke gave each other a withering stare. It was pretty fucking clear that Luke didn’t think much of Frank, and the feeling was mutual. Neither of them turned their attention away from the other until Claire emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later. She looked from one man to the other and then rolled her eyes.

“ Well, you’re right, Frank. Matt needs an actual hospital this time. I can’t do anything about that arm, and it’s already a lovely shade of purple,” she said with a heavy sigh as she stripped off her gloves.

“ He agree to that?” Frank asked. He’d already tried to talk Red into a hospital with little success.

“ I think he’s in agreement that saving his arm might not be such a bad idea.” Claire immediately reached into her bag for a fresh pair of gloves, and shot Luke a look. “Mind giving the stubborn asshole in the other room a hand getting dressed before he kills himself?’

Luke looked less than pleased with the thought of leaving Claire alone with Frank, but nodded and did as she asked. The nurse turned her attention back to Frank. “You. Shirt off now.”

“ Won’t your boyfriend try to take my head off for that?” Frank murmured, trying to force a smile.

“ No, but keep it up and I just might.” She gave him a smile that almost made him believe her.

Taking off the shirt was not fun. Frank’s t shirt had matted into the open wound. A fresh round of bleeding started the second he peeled it off, and he had to bite back an oath. Claire didn’t even try to. 

“ Jesus fucking Christ. You two are a match made in masochist hell. How did you go after Matt with this?” she demanded, pressing gauze to his side.

He shrugged as much as he could. “I managed.”

Before Claire could start telling him what an asshole he was, Luke and Matt appeared in the doorway. Red was holding himself up—barely, but still standing. Even in the shitty lighting of Red’s living room, it was clear to see just how discolored that arm was. Frank regretted not forcing him to the ER sooner. It was just another thing on the list of shit he’d fucked up over the last month. Shit _he_ should be paying for, not Red.

“ He’s refusing an ambulance,” Luke said, as if that was going to be a surprise to anyone else in the room. 

Claire gave Red a useless glare and then rolled her eyes. “Go with him then. Take a cab. I need to finish cleaning this wound out.”

“ I can go on my…”

“ I’m not gonna…”

Red and Luke both started talking at once, but Claire held up a hand. “No, you can’t. And: yes, you will. Matt, it is a miracle you’re still conscious. While I respect that it may be another weird ass superpower of yours, you are not in any shape to go anywhere alone. Luke, you and I discussed this before I came here.”

“ I don’t hurt innocent people,” Frank ground out, looking Luke dead in the eye. “Especially not women. Sure as fuck not someone Red cares about.”

That seemed to satisfy Luke. He nodded and offered Red his arm. “Sounds like we’re both overruled this time.”

Once they were alone, Claire turned her dark eyes to Frank’s. “Did you kill the men that did that?” she asked softly.

Frank nodded. “The ones that were there. The others that weren’t....well, that’s just a matter of time.”

Her gaze darted away, and she bit her lower lip. “I can’t condone what you do, but I’m not sorry they’re dead.”

* * * * * 

Matt really, really hated hospitals. Thankfully, he’d managed to avoid stepping foot in one for his own needs since the accident. Though this time the it was completely unavoidable. There were two separate fractures in Matt’s right arm. He could actually feel the bones moving beneath the muscle. Being hauled around with by said broken limb had not improved the situation, either. He hadn’t actually needed Claire to tell him that his arm was beyond her skill, but he’d held out the vainest of hopes until she’d dashed it. 

Sitting in the waiting room, Matt tried his best not to hear or smell the hundreds of horrible things around him and instead focused on the man next to him. Luke’s heartbeat was like a damn bass drum directly Matt’s ears. Though his breathing was steady, Matt knew enough to know where his friend’s mind really was.

“ He won’t hurt Claire,” Matt whispered.

“ Do you think I would have left her if I honestly didn’t believe that?” Luke countered. “I still don’t have to like it.”

“ Fair enough.”

Matt’s name was called before too terribly long. Luke nudged his arm against Matt’s side, and they headed to the window. Normally, Matt took pride in the fact that he didn’t need a guide, but between the chaos in the unfamiliar ER and his injuries, he was glad to have Luke’s strong arm to hold onto. The woman behind the counter gave a very audible gasp at the sight of them. Matt assumed it was his bruised up state, but the fact that he was clutching the arm of a very large black man probably gave her pause as well—much as that fact pissed Matt off.

“ Sir, I’m going to need you to fill out some paper work and answer a few questions for me,” she said once she found her voice.

Unable to use his right hand, Matt had left his cane at home so it wasn’t completely shocking that the woman had assumed he was sighted. “I’m blind,” he said matter-of-factly. He also held up his injured arm for good measure. “Even if I wasn’t I don’t think I could fill out the paperwork.”

“ Oh,” the woman intoned in surprise. “I can certainly fill it out for you.” Her heart rate spiked a bit. “We will ask that your friend give us some privacy for the moment though.”

Matt sighed. He’d suspected what would follow, but that didn’t make it any less degrading or insulting. It was common practice to ask certain questions when there were suspicions of domestic abuse. The fact that he was claiming to have been mugged days earlier and only now coming in for treatment was highly suspect. His disability combined with Luke’s race and size only escalated those suspicions. For the next thirty minutes, Matt was asked a barrage of questions ranging from what had happened to his arm to if he felt safe in his home environment. By the time that portion of the evening was over, he was less than polite with his answers.

Next came a series of x-rays and Matt being wheeled into an observation room. As shitty as he felt, he even gave in when they offered him pain meds while he waited for the doctor. Luke was brought back around the time that the medication started to put a haze over the world around him. He couldn’t help but be grateful for the company. Also, there was a deeper reason for his reluctance to be alone at the moment with strangers—one he didn’t even want to admit to himself. Still, he knew it was going to be a long night, and Luke probably wanted to be elsewhere.

“ You don’t have to stay,” Matt said, exhaustion and medication slurring the edges of his words.

“ Nah. Claire will kill me if I don’t stay at least until they get you a real room,” Luke refused with a slight chuckle. “I’m just glad I wasn’t here when they put that shit in your arm.”

“ Not a fan of needles?” The thought of the nearly invincible man being afraid of a little needle was oddly comforting to Matt. 

Luke snorted. “Claire tell you she had to shove one in my eye the first night we met?”

“ Jesus,” Matt coughed. “Tell me you weren’t awake enough to see it coming?”

“ I was.” Luke shuddered a little where he sat. “Shit still gives me nightmares.”

“ And I thought jamming a tube in my chest without anesthesia to re-inflate my lung was bad. You definitely win the prize for who had it worse when they met Claire,” Matt drawled. “Still not a bad deal overall though, is it?”

“ Not at all,” Luke agreed.

True to Matt’s prediction, it was another few hours before the on-call doctor was able to see him. He wished he was in his own comfortable bed in his apartment, but he knew better than to spend too much time wishing for something like that. At the very least, he reasoned, he wasn’t with the Russians or Fisk. Using Luke’s heart as a makeshift distraction helped lull Matt into an almost-sleep while Luke read a paperback in the chair next to him. 

When the doctor did arrive, finally, it was with bad news. The break was bad enough to require an orthopedic specialist to take a look at it—one who wouldn’t be in until morning. On top of that, there was some concern about the circulation in his arm. Neither piece of news was surprising, only disappointing. Matt found himself being carted upstairs to a blessedly private room. The nurses put his arm in some sort of contraption that was supposed to increase blood flow, but also had the side effect of making getting into anything resembling a comfortable position impossible. The whole time, Luke kept his word and stayed.

“ Go home and sleep,” Matt told him once the last of the prodding was complete and his nurse was gone. “Claire’s got to be exhausted after…everything she did and so are you.”

“ Sure there’s nothing you need?” Luke asked, the relief flooding into his voice.

Matt shook his head.

On his way out the door, Luke paused. “Just so you know, Claire texted me. Said your friend is doing fine. She forced him to take some antibiotics and painkillers, and he was out cold before she left.”

A weight lifted off Matt’s chest. “I can’t thank either of you enough.”

Luke nodded. “You got me out of prison. I’d say that goes a long way to making you and I even.”

After Luke left, Matt gave into the temptation to let the nurses give him something to help him sleep. Slipping into a dreamless oblivion free of pain and paranoia was a welcome relief. He only wished he didn’t hate himself a little bit for allowing himself that reprieve. 

There was a familiar scent next to him when Matt woke in the morning. He pushed away the cob-webbing from his brain and zeroed in on the heartbeat and breathing that went with it. The wash of emotion that came over him was almost too much to take, but Matt managed to keep it in.

“ Foggy,” he said with a smile.

“ Hey, buddy. You’re awake,” Foggy said, stifling a yawn of his own. “The nurses said you needed rest more than just about anything.”

Matt wiped his uninjured hand across his face gingerly. “What time is it?”

“ Just after one. You even slept through them changing your IV bags and checking your vitals. Didn’t even know that was possible for you,” Foggy rambled lightly. There was an undercurrent of worry in his voice, but it was hard to have the kind of private conversation they needed to have in a hospital when anyone could barge in at any moment.

“ How did you know I was here?” Matt asked.

“ Claire called. She said you’d been attacked,” he added a bit dubiously. “Plus, you still have me listed as your next of kin on all of your paperwork, remember?”

Matt nodded and let himself relax into the pillows behind him. “I shouldn’t leave you with that kind of responsibility.”

Foggy’s grunt of frustration was more effective than any dirty look could have been. “And who are you going to list? Your house guest?”

“ Foggy…”

“ No, Matt, stop that shit right there. You are in a hospital bed. We can argue later.” Foggy stood and let out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna go tell the nurses you’re awake.”

A tray of barely edible food came in on Foggy’s heels when he returned. Matt had a hell of a time trying to eat with his off hand, but managed to choke down most of it. Though he’d been force fed some kind of supplement shake when they were holding him, even a shitty meal was still a welcome change. Foggy hovered by his bedside, opening his milk and fruit cup when it became evident Matt couldn’t do it on his own. An uneasy silence stretched between them after Matt shoved his tray aside. He knew he was mostly—or entirely—to blame for it, but he regretted it nonetheless.

The doctor that appeared not to long after lunch was over was a short brisk man with a heavy European accent. He talked too loud and kept directing questions to Foggy rather than Matt himself. It took every ounce of what little restraint Matt had left not to crawl out of the bed and strangle him for it. Either way, his rudeness didn’t change the fact that Matt was now facing a surgery and countless hours of physical therapy.

“ With any luck, your range of motion shouldn’t be too greatly impacted,” the doctor said as if he were merely talking about the weather and not the possibility that Matt could be facing a second impairment.

“ With luck?” Matt scoffed.

“ Mr. Murdock, your break was quite severe, and your poor judgment in refraining from seeking medical treatment at the time of injury was quite unfortunate. The coloration of your arm has improved—which is promising—but it does not negate the fact that there could be permanent nerve damage.” The doctor scratched a note on his pad. “I will send a nurse in to go over the per-surgical paperwork and answer any further questions.” 

Without so much as a ‘goodbye’, the surgeon turned on his heel and left the room. 

Beside Matt, Foggy sunk back into his chair. “Fuck.”

“ That about sums my life up at the moment,” Matt muttered. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t get to decide that, Frank. There’s a lot of shit in this world that you think you can control. But who I love?” Matt shook his head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that. Deal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written by Entropyrose

Foggy couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t fighting some type of war with Matt—whether over his many repeated absences from work, or the fact that he was out there on the streets at night, routinely trying to get himself killed. The latest bone of contention was turning out to be the biggest struggle yet—this  _ thing _ with Frank, whatever you could call it—only furthered Matt’s erratic behavior. 

If there was one thing Foggy was certain of, it was that there were no “good days” with Frank. On a “good day”, Frank and Matt were out there fighting unseen forces and facing evil and getting the shit beaten out of them only to crawl back home, when and if they were still well enough to make it there. Bad days were only worse—the times when Frank would disappear for days on end, Matt would be functioning on autopilot alone—going about his daily life with all tenacity and enthusiasm of a robot. It was as if he couldn’t function without the guy. Foggy had never seen Matt like this, and he didn’t like it. It had been hard enough losing his best friend to the vigilante lifestyle, but it was a whole new thing entirely to have an actual psychopathic, gun-toting killer who was fueled only by caffeine and his own fucked-up version of justice living in Matt’s apartment. 

There was only one problem: Foggy was as scared as hell. You don’t exactly broach a touchy subject with the Punisher without risking a few limbs, regardless of what stages of healing his wounds are in. But there were a few things Matt needed from his apartment. He was in desperate need of a toothbrush, a change of clothes and some fresh underwear, so Foggy made a deal with himself: chances are, Frank had already packed up his AK and hobbled home with his proverbial tail between his legs. After all, he had no reason to stay if Matt wasn’t hanging around (but oh the hell Foggy caused when he had found out Matt had given Frank a key) and as far as Foggy knew, he still had a dog to take care of. On the off chance that he was in fact still there, Foggy promised himself he was going to say something, consequences be damned. He didn’t know what exactly to say or how it would sound when it flew out of his mouth fueled by righteous fury he wasn’t sure he could contain, but something’s gotta give. 

The door was slightly ajar when he approached, and that was never a good sign. His heart now lodged high in his throat, he pushed the door open with a shaky hand and peered inside. The smell of chemical cleaners would have been unbearable had it not been for the breeze blowing in through the open windows. 

A gray pit bull lay sleeping, a half-eaten chewy bone sticking out of his mouth, on the newly vacuumed living room rug. The panic subsided a bit, seeing the mushy beast so contentedly snoring away, and he took a few more steps in.

Bad mistake. Unfortunately, Foggy had become accustomed to the sound a pistol makes when the hammer is being slid back—hazards of being Matt Murdock’s best friend, one might say. His back stiffened immediately as he was greeted with a cold steel barrel in his face.

Frank produced a tired sigh and pulled the gun away, storing it in its holster. Foggy would have laughed had he not been so close to losing continence; the man was shirtless and barefoot, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a big leather belt strapped to his thigh. This guy was hard-core, that was for certain.

“Jesus,” Frank hissed, his shoulders relaxing. He should have expected that Frank would have been in as bad of shape if not worse, still it surprised him to see the huge gashes and the blood that oozed through fresh bandages and the deep purple bruises that swirled around his neck and back. His arms were almost fully engulfed in gauze, not that it hid the rigid muscle underneath. He was still as intimidating as fuck.

“ Jesus yourself,” Foggy shot back, eying him up and down. “Matt wasn’t kidding. You really did a number.” 

Frank responded with a low grunt before turning on his heel and padding off into the living room. The counters were wiped down, the floor freshly mopped, the dryer in the closet pumping out a clean cotton smell as it went round and round. A peek down the hall revealed a bed stripped of all bedding. A few years ago after one particularly bad incident, Matt had gotten smart and purchased a tarp-like cover for his mattress. This was tossed off, too, and lay in a neatly folded pile in the corner along with some pillow cases and a plush throw.

“ Hey buddy,” Foggy murmured, leaning down to give Max a scrub between his floppy ears. He groaned happily and clutched his bone a little tighter. Guess it was a good thing Frank was a bad-ass and could take care of himself—Max was certainly a shitty guard-dog. Frank had disappeared by the time Foggy picked his head up only to return seconds later with a gym bag in hand. He promptly dropped it onto the couch cushions.

“ Figured you’d be coming back for some of this,” Frank explained when Foggy shot him a sideways glance. “It’s got his toothbrush and some deodorant and a couple changes o’clothes.”

Foggy’s eyelashes fluttered. It was a shock that Frank would be so thoughtful. So kind…They both stood there in the silence of the room for a few moments and it didn’t take long for Frank’s face to start showing his discomfort. Foggy pawed through the bag, marking off the checklist in his head of the items Matt had requested, and sure enough it was all there, and maybe a little extra. Claire had probably told Frank the bad news. It was anybody’s guess how long Matt would be in the hospital for. Foggy had nearly been jolted out of remembering what it was he wanted to say to Frank. Nearly. “Hey, uh…” 

Frank quirked an eyebrow, the gash along it moving without him making so much of a wince. It had to be killing him. Guess looking tough was more important.

“ Y-you know, Matt really likes you.” Foggy could feel the heat rush to his face as Frank’s eyebrow went higher. God, this was desperately uncomfortable, for the both of them. He tugged the gym bag into his grasp, tapping his thumb absentmindedly on the zipper. He slammed his apprehension down somewhere between his stomach and his kidneys and forced himself to continue. “And I am really,  _ really  _ tired of seeing him get hurt.”

To his surprise, Frank seemed more intrigued than indignant, propping his sore leg up on the arm of the sofa and snickering under his breath. “You think I can make him stop? You think I haven’t tried?”

Foggy shook his head wildly. “That’s—that’s not what I mean.” Would he love to see Matt hang the Devil suit up for good? Yes. Would he love it if Matt swore off vigilantism altogether and devoted himself to his office, to the court, to their friendship? Yes, Yes and of God of course!, Yes. But that wasn’t going to happen—not in this life. Foggy had made a choice to love Matt regardless of the fact that he was going to kill himself one day doing what he does, because whatever time Matt had left here on this earth, Foggy wanted to spent it with him. He hated himself for feeling that way—but what choice did he have? He couldn’t just  _ not  _ be Matt’s friend. Couldn’t just  _ not  _ go about worrying and wondering about him. That’s not how this works. “I’m talking about  _ you _ , Frank.”

And there it was—the ripe indignation that had been hiding behind those dark brown eyes now reared its ugly head, and Frank let out a disgusted snort, peeling himself away from the couch (away from the situation) as he padded off to the kitchen.

_ Yeah, sure, Frank. That’s right—go get your coffee. Caffeine’ll help.  _ “ You don’t know what Matt was like before! You don’t realize that he—“

“ Still swinging off rooftops in his footy pajamas, I bet,” Frank retorts as he throws open the cupboard and rummages for the big Folgers can.

Foggy shook off the remark and continued, unabated. “Look, even since you came into the picture he’s been…different. I don’t know what you say to him or what you  _ do  _ to him frankly, that absolutely sends him off the deep end. But this disappearing and reappearing shit has got to stop.”

Frank slammed the cupboard door closed with a resounding BANG, his eyes boring holes down into the counter. He let a sharp intake of hair through his nostrils before he spoke, barely able to contain the tidal-wave of rage threatening to break over his carefully guarded walls. “Look, what Red’s gonna do, Red’s gonna do. That’s got nothing to do with me.”

Foggy crossed his arms in front of his chest, throwing his head away to stare out the fire escape window. “Yeah, Matt ran full-tilt into a Russian mob he knows nothing about just days after you ditch him. But those two things aren’t related at all. And Matt is totally not your problem, right? Could happen to anybody.” Betraying his instinct to run and hide, he goes in the exact opposite direction, snatching the duffel up in one hand and dragging it off the couch as he stalks forward, stopping just short of Frank’s frozen form, leaning in so close Frank can feel the heat of his breath on his ear. “But here’s the problem, Frank. Matt isn’t just _anybody._ He’s my best friend, and I cannot—I _will not—_ just stand by and watch as you hurt him over and over and over, time and time again. Next time, if Matt even recovers enough for there to _be_ a next time, just remember it’s on you. I don’t care if you are inches away when it happens. If he gets shot, if he gets maimed, or thrown down a flight of stairs, _anything...”_ Foggy pokes two fingers into the red patch of underneath the bandage on Frank’s bicep, ignoring the sharp hiss ebbing from Frank’s throat. “I’m coming for you.”

Foggy charged off down the hallway at full speed. What was it that Matt saw in this guy? Why was Matt so distracted, so completely lost to the point of not being able to function. All for what? Some dead-beat criminal that couldn’t give two shits whether he lived or died. 

He hit the door and let out a long, ragged sigh. “Shit.” Despite every ounce of his being telling him not to, he turned on his heel and trotted back down the hallway. Even Max looked up from his place on the floor, raising one ear as if he were concernedly surprised to see him back. Frank was just flicking on the switch, the coffee pot gurgling to life as Foggy stopped to survey him from the doorway.

“ Okay, asshole. Here’s how this is going to work.”

Frank snickered. “You really are a stupid son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“ Yeah, maybe.” Foggy threw the bag back on the couch, retrieving his cell phone from his pocket and sending out a text to Claire.

>Come get Matt’s shit. I’m babysitting at his apartment.<

“ But I can’t trust that you’ll be here when Matt gets out. And if he likes you, well, then. I guess I’ll just have to keep an eye on you for him.”

Frank let out a high-pitched laugh, the expression on his face as close to a real smile as Foggy had ever seen. Consequently, it was even more terrifying than his signature scowl. “You think you’re gonna babysit me?” He clutched his side, evidence that the laugh hadn’t done much good for his busted ribs. He rubbed his eyes—that was the first time Foggy noticed the purple circles underneath weren’t just from his face having been beaten into a pulp—and a ragged sigh escaped his split lips.

Foggy sat down hard on the couch, continuing his unflinching stare and setting

his jaw tightly with arms crossed and chest puffed out.

In all likelihood, Frank forgot what it was like to be held accountable to another human being. That might have been one of the major problems between him and Matt. Matt was nothing if not loyal, even at times when he probably shouldn’t have been. Frank…Frank was something else. What appeared on the outside to be Frank just using Matt, sleeping in Matt’s bed and eating Matt’s food and sometimes wearing Matt’s sweatpants, disappearing for days and sometimes weeks without word or whisper, was it just his way of protecting him? If so, Foggy thought, they’d need to have a very long talk. Protecting Matt Murdock was a 24/7 kind of job, eight days a week, for all eternity. It was an impossibility as the man was so  _ good _ at getting his ass—and the rest of him—in trouble. And Foggy should know, because he’d been trying to keep him out of trouble since college, with a success record that proved he’d been less than effective.

“ I gotta ask, how did all this—you and him thing—how did that get started?”

Frank snorted through his first sip of coffee, spattering some out onto his chest and the rest on the counter. “Shit.” He grabbed a rag already wet with cleaning solution and dabbed at himself. “Like I’m gonna tell you that.”

Foggy shrugged. “Just askin’. You know, because it’s pretty typical for guys like you to shag and leave. So I’m just wondering what keeps you coming back.”

Frank’s eyes rolled nearly to the back of his head. It was amusing to see the big-bad-Punisher disintegrate right before his eyes into something not unlike a teenage girl refusing to tell her father what boy she’d kissed at the drive-in. Foggy had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. “When did he tell you?”

“ He didn’t tell me anything, Frank.” (Foggy thought, ironically, how that seemed to be the case for pretty much everything in Matt’s life, lately. Perhaps Frank had taken that away from Foggy, too.) “I’m a lawyer, too, you know. I’m pretty good at figuring things out. I was over here a few weeks ago and saw one of your gun cases in the closet and a decidedly non-feminine-looking toothbrush next to his and sort of put two and two together from there. So, please, in all seriousness, answer the question. Do you like him, Frank? Or do you just like to fuck him?”

The coffee mug slammed down on the counter and Frank stalked off, past the living room and down the hall into the bedroom as fast as his bruised, broken body would take him. The bedroom door slammed shut, the room falling into silence. Foggy let out a shuddering breath and reached down to pat Max’s head again. “He like this to you, too? C’mon buddy. Let’s take a walk.”

He clipped the leash on to the big steel loop of Max’s collar and smiled as his tail wagged immediately, big brown eyes staring up at him with a wide, panting smile. “Gooboy,” Foggy murmured as they headed out the door. Frank wouldn’t be going anywhere without Max in tow, not that he was in any shape to, regardless.

* * * * *

The next few days crawled by for Matt. It involved regular visits from Claire and Luke, though not usually at the same time, and constantly being woken up just long enough to have his blood pressure taken or meet with a specialist. His arm wasn’t feeling any better—it was still swollen and purple and they had already had to re-cast it once due to the bandages getting too tight. His other cuts were healing really well, and soon his face was only a few shades paler than usual, the marks and bruises fading slowly. He could finally eat solid food on the third day without his insides rejecting it. Foggy came to see him, still, too though apparently only when Karen was available to keep tabs on Frank. It would have been okay if Frank had just gone somewhere, off on his own for a few days. Matt understood that better than anybody, how vital it was to be left alone to lick his wounds and heal. Matt was pretty confident he would be back. He always comes back. He’d been an idiot for thinking otherwise.

Claire had told him they’d even gone over there with pizza one night, when Frank started feeling better. Amazingly, it was Luke’s idea, though perhaps he saw it as an opportunity to feel Frank out. She said Frank sat in the dining room with them, the five of them—Frank and Foggy and Karen and Claire and Luke—despite his obvious disdain for the idea. It gave Matt a chuckle, visualizing his boyfriend’s blatant grimace upon having to be involved in something as vanilla as a pizza dinner with friends. As a fellow vigilante, Matt can attest it is no easy thing having to play “normal”. More times than not, it is the harder mask to wear.

Day six and he is sorting through the paperwork he had to practically beg Karen to bring from his private stash of paperwork just so he could do something productive. Reviewing their cases seemed like a good place to start, and he knew it would make Foggy happy to know he hadn’t completely abandoned the firm. Besides, money was as tight as always and there wasn’t any room to take a sick day. A familiar heartbeat entered his radar, one that had his stomach doing butterflies, and he jolted up in the hospital bed as quickly as his broken ribs would allow as the door whined open. “ _ What are you doing here _ ?,” he whispered.

“ Breakin’ you out,” A voice that was equal parts velvet and gravel said. Frank must have been high or drunk—possibly both. After the fiasco of chasing Karen and Grotto down the hallway with a shotgun and subsequently terrorizing staff and patients alike, it was safe to say that Frank’s face was one that had been permanently seared into the memories of anybody who saw it.

“ _ Are you an idiot _ ?,” Matt hissed, tossing his head side to side in an attempt to hone in on any possible eavesdroppers or passersby.

Frank shrugged, the contours of his face pulling down into his signature devil-may-care pout and flashing his eyes up to the ceiling. “Probably.”

Matt reached a hand out—regardless of the pain in his ribs or the exasperation of having his dumbass killer boyfriend sneak in past hospital staff—grasping hold of Frank’s hand when he came close enough. He drew it up to his mouth, kissing his bruised knuckles and pressing it against his chest as Frank rolled up a chair.

“ Missed you too,” Frank murmured.

Matt couldn’t stop a frown from breaking through and he pulled his head back, craning his neck as the faint crackle in Frank’s voice shifted his internal mapping. “What…what is that?”

Frank let out a soft laugh, drawing Matt’s hand up to brush his fingers along the full beard growing on his face. Matt felt his face flush, even as he smiled and cupped his hand under Frank’s chin to fully experience the wiry hair. Gone was the slight bristle of two-day-old stubble; in its place was a very impressive start on a full beard.

“ Dear god, you grew all that in this short time?”

Frank shrugged. “It’s a gift. You ought ta know.” He gently chucked Matt under the chin, his fingers sweeping along the short stubble. “Thought I packed your razor?”

“Oh, _you_ packed my stuff? I wondered why all the pants were my big, baggy ones.”

“ Damn straight, I don’t want any cute nurses checkin’ out the goods.” Frank leaned in without so much as looking over his shoulder, unable to stop himself from stealing a quick kiss near Matt’s temple. “Doc says you’re good to go.”

“ Really? You talk to someone?”

Frank shook his head. “Nah, but I have my ways. She’ll be by with the paperwork any time. I wanted to know what you wanted for breakfast.”

“ Ooh, starting the dirty talk so soon?” Matt grinned as he leaned in to bump noses, giving Frank’s small beard a firm petting. Frank’s smile had to be gorgeous—it felt gorgeous. The taut, smooth skin stretching in folds over a perfect set of teeth (how he hadn’t lost any in all the missions he’d gone on, Matt couldn’t begin to know). Wide, soft lips grasped hold of his and pulled on his bottom lip, worrying away at the skin until they turned a soft pink. Matt shivered as his body relaxed. He was kissing the lips he thought he’d lose forever.

Frank pulled away far enough to separate their mouths, keeping their foreheads pressed together as he let out a little gasp of air. The wide pad of his thumb circled Matt’s bare arm, the one that wasn’t broken, lighting goosebumps along his battered skin. “Red…I gotta tell you…what you said. Uhm…”

“ Don’t...don’t,” Matt begged, pushing a finger to Frank’s lips and scowling when Frank moved his head away from the touch.

“ Naw, I need to. I need to tell you. I was wrong. I’m…I’m sorry. I just…I don’t want it. I…I don’t deserve it.”

Matt tilted his head Frank’s way, his purposefully distant eyes suddenly snapping-to and pulling Frank into his gaze. “You don’t get to decide that, Frank. There’s a lot of shit in this world that you think you can control. But who I love?” Matt shook his head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that. Deal?”

A sad smile tugged at the edges of Frank’s mouth as he gave him a firm nod. “Okay, Red. Deal.”

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke had more or less become the de facto leader of the group. He hadn’t intended to be, but then again, they hadn’t intended to be a group, either. When Claire came clean about Matt and what had gone down with Danny while he was away, there was no way that things weren’t going to get complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by Amaria_Anna_D

“How come I have to be the one in the suit?” Danny whined, shifting the too big armor around.  Luke rolled his eyes and laughed, somehow managing not to point out the obvious. Jessica wasn’t as good at keeping her mouth shut. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she drawled as she looped her camera strap round her neck. “I’m pretty sure even Matt can see why it has to be you.”

Danny gave them a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I guess you’re right. But this thing is heavy! How does Matt manage to fight in this?”

“Ask him after we do this,” Luke murmured, obviously starting to lose patience with the two of them. Crossing his arms over his chest, he gave the remaining two of his teammates a hard look. Danny immediately looked chastised while Jessica pretended not to notice it.

Luke had more or less become the de facto leader of the group. He hadn’t intended to be, but then again, they hadn’t intended to be a group, either. When Claire came clean about Matt and what had gone down with Danny while he was away, there was no way that things weren’t going to get complicated. Throwing in Jessica to the mix had only added to the chaos. Five months later though, Luke couldn’t imagine what life would be like without the other three. In fact, he was missing Matt’s even, thoughtful presence. Matt could be reckless as all get out when it came to his own safety, but when it came to the rest of them, he ended up being more cautious than maybe even Luke.

“So what’s the actual plan here?” Jessica asked, squinting through the viewfinder and adjusting some settings. In another life, Luke always thought she’d have made a darn fine photographer.

“I jump across some buildings, and you take pictures to post on the forums,” Danny said, hopefully. He somehow looked even younger when he was standing in Matt’s gear, nearly drowning in the loose fabric.

Luke sighed. “Not that easy, man. It’s not enough for you just to be seen as Daredevil. You need to bust some heads in that suit. People need to know that Hell’s Kitchen is still protected.”

“Can’t we go back to his old costume?” Danny pleaded. “I can barely see through this mask, and I don’t know if I can fight like I usually do.”

“Fuck it,” Jessica spat. “Give me the god damn suit! I’m pretty sure my balls will fill it out better than yours, Hong Kong Phooey.”

“You don’t have to fight like you usually do. We take easy targets. I will come in as back up when and if things get rough. Matt and I have been spotted together enough times that it won’t seem strange. Anyone watching who knows about the auction will assume that I’m only here while Daredevil is on the mend,” Luke explained, completely ignoring Jessica. 

Danny sighed heavily. “It’s just one night, right?”

“We’ll see how this goes,” Luke replied evenly.

“All right,” Jessica drawled, “you two stay here. I’m going to go scope out some of the more zesty parts of the neighborhood. I’ll get a good spot to take pics and give you a call.”

The two men watched Jessica jump across a thirty foot gap between buildings like she was hopping a crack in the pavement. Luke had a lot of thoughts about Jessica Jones—some good, some bad, and others he needed to keep under tight lock and key. His mind had drifted to the detective more times than he wanted to admit while he’d been locked up. Solitary confinement gave a man a lot of time to think. He’d liked Jessica, and he’d be lying to say that a part of him didn’t wonder what would have happened if things had been different. That said, Luke had Claire. Claire was a beautiful, strong, smart, talented woman. He was already a fair way into being in love with her, and he wished he didn’t still think about Jessica.

“I can’t believe you two dated,” Danny muttered, pulling on the mask.

Luke let out a non-committal grunt. “It’s a good thing it’s dark, because you don’t make that look half as good as Matt does,” he teased, hoping to change the topic for good.

Taking the bait, Danny huffed. “I almost beat out Stark in New York magazine’s best looking bachelors.”

“Stark is a few billion dollars and one heck of a perfect beard in front of your scrawny behind,” the larger man pointed out with a smile. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “With the Devil, things were bad enough. I could at least count on the majority of my men being jailed and bail them out within days. But not with this one. This one, shoots without warning, like a shadow. He has no concern for the preservation of life. And while I can appreciate his thinking, it is costing our organization in time, money and manpower."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by Entropyrose

The office was nearly black when Wesley opened the door, illuminated only by the starry city sky and a small floor lamp. Softly-playing classical music covered most of the sound of from the beeping machines that were stacked on the far wall. The man in the white lab coat seated inches away from the bald-headed giant in the chair glanced up with a nervous look and instinctively pulled away. Wesley raised his hand. “It’s alright. Please continue.” 

In truth, he was a little nervous himself. It had only been a few days since the explosion at the South headquarters, and now Fisk had holed himself up in his high-rise apartment, surrounding himself with armed guards at every entrance who stood watch over him as he healed from his injuries. His sheer bulk had absorbed most of the shrapnel, protecting his liver, heart and lungs. (One kidney had not been so lucky, but after a somewhat risky surgery performed in the basement of the same complex, the direness of the situation slowly waned and Fisk was currently on the path to a full recovery.) Fisk was not a man to be trifled with regardless of the situation, but his injuries served only to make his moods althemore unpredictable. 

“Did we find him?,” the voice behind the overstuffed recliner asked. His usually dark and gravelly voice took on a tired lilt. Wesley approached cautiously, coming to stand next to the Doctor. 

“There are no traces, sir. Some current social media feeds have produced photos that seem legitimate, but we have yet to find physical proof that--” 

“NOT HIM,” the giant barked through phlegm-filled lungs. He cleared his throat as he shifted to glare up at him. “The  _ other  _ one. The one in black.” 

Wesley swallowed, feeling his throat go suddenly dry as he scraped out, “No. No trace, sir.” 

The medical equipment that was not strapped down or bolted to the wall went sailing against the window in front of him with one swipe of his outstretched hand and a furious roar. There was little chance of the window breaking, since it was bullet-resistant, but it had the desired effect. The doctor beside him recoiled against his chair, clutching his stethoscope in a death-grip, eyes wide and shaking with fear. The outburst sent Fisk into another coughing fit; he hunched over into himself as the blows racked his body, the blanket in his lap wadded up into his two huge fists. When the coughing subsided again, the man in the white lab coat shakily brought a glass of clear liquid--most likely water--underneath Fisk’s nose. Though his eyes flared momentarily, Fisk took the glass and finished off the contents silently, returning it to the table beside him when it was empty. “I have lost nearly half of my crew in just the latest attack alone,” he continued as he gazed out at the city laid out in front of the big window. “With the Devil, things were bad enough. I could at least count on the majority of my men being jailed and bail them out within days. But not with this one. This one, shoots without warning, like a shadow. He has no concern for the preservation of life. And while I can appreciate his thinking, it is costing our organization in time, money and manpower. 

“What is clear is that they are working together, “ Wesley offered. He produced a smooth, rounded piece of metal from his jacket pocket, handing it to his scowling boss. “And a sweep of our vehicles produced this.” 

“A tracking device,” Fisk deduced, inspecting the object and turning it over and over in the soft glow of the lamplight. He let out an impressed chuckle despite himself.

Wesley nodded. “I took the liberty of calling in a favor with our...associates at the local PD. I hope you don’t mind. Tests found that this particular mixture of metals matches the type used by the Cartel a few years back. Nothing that matches metals found later than 2013. At that point, I could only assume the maker had since found...other employment opportunities.” 

Fisk eyes practically glittered. “It should take a fairly light amount of effort to do a little sniffing around. I trust you can do at least that much. It’s time to visit our friends at the Cartel and see if they can’t assist us.”

“Already done,” Wilson announced, rather proud of himself. It was so satisfying to watch Fisk’s eyebrows slowly rise. “They gave us the name of one Melvin Potter.” 

Fisk choked out a chuckle. “Potter? My old tailor?” 

Welsey nodded. “The same.” 

Fisk slid a glare to the doctor who was still busy flattening himself against the chair and jerked his head towards the door. “Thank you for your assistance,” Fisk murmured. “The gentleman just outside the door will escort you out.

Watching the flickering life of the city beneath him was among Fisk’s favorite hobbies, right next to listening classical music and snapping necks with his bare fingers. For Wesley, there was a simple joy found in pleasing his best friend, and it would bring him a sense of closure and justice to personally break the fingers of the man who had made the tracer. Of course, there was always the off chance that the Punisher had stolen it, but the technology needed to reprogram the tracker (or trackers, as Wesley was sure there were more where this one came from) seemed far above the killer vigilante’s levels of intelligence and patience. When the doctor scampered out, his medical bag clutched firmly to his chest, Wesley drifted around the back of the chair and took his place beside Fisk. He slid a secretive glance down at Fisk, inspecting the progression of his healing out of the corner of his eye. The door clicked closed. 

He looked pale and tired, the bags under his eyes more purple and pronounced than usual, the fresh bruises on his arms fading to a greenish blue. A clear plastic tube running from his nostrils delivered fresh oxygen, a mechanical puff of air resounding every few seconds from the little white machine on the wall. Various IVs took up a majority of his lower right arm, but there were a few less than there had been just a day or so prior. 

“It’s a shame, really,” Fisk announced under his breath, sad sincerity lining his tone. “To destroy such a gifted artist.” 

“Perhaps he could be persuaded to rejoin us,” Welsey offered, mentally lowering the number of fingers he’d break. “If he is indeed in business again, we would simply make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Grinning to himself, he added, “literally.” 

Fisk considered it, wiggling his thumb in between his lips and nibbling absentmindedly. “I want the Devil back,” he retorted. “I paid good money to get him out of the way.” His eyes flashed up, determination burning beneath them, a snarl suddenly warping his features. “Do whatever you have to do to make that happen. And ensure that this... _ Punisher... _ is no longer a problem.” 

Wesley nodded dutifully. “Understood.” Once the tracker had returned to the inside of his coat, he spun on his heel and started for the exit.

“And Wesley,”  Fisk called over his shoulder. His voice had a resurgence of strength behind it now. 

Wesley paused. 

“Thank you. You are a true friend.” 

**“Of course,” he muttered, a slight smile tightening the lines of his mouth. When he left he had his game face on, slipping his watch into his pants pocket because things were about to get a bit bloody and he wasn’t about to ruin a perfectly good Vacheron. **


End file.
